Notes from Lexington: Kentuckians

Those Kentuckians shore know how to drawl. In the land where "Share the road with Horses" and "Horses have Right of Way" signs dominated, I spent the greater part of every conversation restraining myself from repeating their words, trying to corral those long, long vowels for myself.

Friendly to a one (does that famous Southern hospitality still exist?), they seemed to look for any excuse to converse with us. Among conversation-starters: our Wisconsin license plate, my hiking hat, the reusability of the deli containers - you get the picture. And once they got us started, they played the game I often play (and will only admit to here in the safety of blogosphere). I love to hear people with accents talk. I engage them in conversations of inconsequence and try to stretch out the experience to some level of (unattainable) saturation.

I'm a linguistic geek. But I'm not alone! Those Kentuckians and fellow tray-yul (trail) hikers are guilty too. Even the ones who've moved "up here" to live with their grandmother who's "fixin' to pass" wanted a piece of these Northerners. As we hiked through their hollers (hollows) and basked in their sun, I noticed our commonalities.

The three sixth grade boys hiking in front of us filled the bill of sixth grade boys everywhere. They giggled and exclaimed at the copulating stick figures drawn on a rock wall, "Somebody was rotten up here!" (Rotten??)

They jostled their fellows for the chance to lap at the water dripping down from those same rock formations and successfully ditched red-faced moms who huffed up the trail behind them. ("You go right on ahead, Hon'.") They scoffed at dads and younger siblings who'd opted to ride the lift instead of hike up the trail.

They gaped at spiders,

pretty views,

and natural sandstone bridges.

Yep, I reckon they'd make sixth grade boys anywhere proud.

Notes from Lexington: Fluid Motion

OK, I'm not quite done "conquering the world," but I'm afraid of losing my vacation zen, so here I go; world-conquering delayed, story starting...

Sunday, April 1, 2007 - Lexington, Kentucky

I sit in the car with Piper while Chris goes into the store. I observe a couple entering the store behind him. They are dressed alike - in beaded 70s apparel, two heads of straight and longish hair done to the same level of coif. Seamlessly, she pauses before the door and he opens it for her, then lock-steps in behind her. Inside the foyer, she clamps a cuff at a time and pulls on a denim jacket. Meanwhile, he acquires a cart and wordlessly pulls up alongside her. They slip from view, but I imagine them sweeping through the aisles together, deciding on purchases with the minimum of murmurings. Everything will be accomplished with the fluid motions of a couple long acclimated to each other, with the automaticity of compatibility.

If I had to describe this trip so far, I'd say that we'd accomplished it this way. Fluidly. It's as though you read each other's minds. If there is contention, you sense when to push the point - and when to just fall in line with the will of the other.

There is peace of mind, there is comfort, there is serenity. There are views that you wordlessly share. Later they drift into conversation and you realize that he was thinking the same thing as you when you rolled into Kentucky's blossoms and greenery.

You see him in front of you running through the University of Kentucky's arboretum and later, hiking in front of you on Sheltowee Trace National Recreation Trail. Piper turns and runs back to bridge the distance should anyone interrupt the invisible tether that joins you as a unit, a family.

So much is made of the drama of falling in love, the passion of couples. (Rightfully so.) However now, as the other half of an "old married couple," I see the joy of the still waters of coupledom. The deep and enduring mind-reading sharing of a life. The trust and togetherness that imbues every waking moment. Fluid motion is very nice.

Rejuvenated!

We're back and I feel great! I didn't even realize how rundown I was until comparing it to how energized I feel now. I feel like conquering the world. Or at least doing laundry, scrubbing the house, starting my garden, swimming tonight... Life is good.

We came back to find that Chris's family had cleaned my car, taken superlative care of our kitty, and genuinely missed us. They soaked up our stories and told us theirs. Funny how much you take for granted the good vibes of the people who are always there. They rock.

I have stories for you-all too - "Notes from Lexington" soon to come! Plus I need to catch up on commenting. I quickly skimmed through everyone's blogs - you've been busy! All in good time... gotta conquer the world here first. :)

Prisoner TT2349

He's out packing the bikes up now, but I don't have long. I came home from school to find the car in the driveway, loaded down already with the travel agent cum jailer's and Piper's bags.

"Umm... are we leaving early?"

"As soon as you can get ready."

So I've been scurrying around - up and down the stairs, trying to find the perfect balance of running, hiking, biking, swimming (wetsuit??), vacation clothing. I've also been trying to compose this - my last message to you all - but my eyes must have glossed over or my hands slowed, cuz each time I tried, I'd get a "Is that bag ready to go to the car yet?" So nothing profound, just a hurried scribble to say... have a great week!

Prisoner TT2349 reporting to vacation - 24 hours early.

Finding the Rhythm

I saved a toad's life tonight. And it all happened because I let the rhythm find me today.

Let me back up a little bit. It was that kind of Monday. Up later than I intended, I had to leave the house one cup shy of my usual dose of caffeine - and the day continued that way.

Then I got home with every intention of doing the 1 hour bike, 20 min. run on my training plan. But there was Chris. With Piper. All suited up and ready for a trek through a cornfield on a 70 degree day. I have a weakness for such things. Instead of donning my bike shoes, on went the hiking boots. Two hours later, we had rehashed Chris's weekend at work, decided yet again to postpone moving to another locale, and prevented Piper from rolling in a dead skunk. (He beat us to the punch last week - aargh.)

Then it was home to supper, followed by blogging. Mid-blog-reading, I suddenly felt the urge to bike. I estimated that I still had 45 minutes of light and was out the door within 5 minutes. And up to 17 MPH by .12 mile. That's when I got the first inkling that sometimes you win by letting go of the best laid plans and letting the rhythm find you.

The rhythm that found me was the mating song of spring - every bullfrog and his uncle was out there in the marshes calling for a girlfriend. Two foxes scuttled across the road in front of me, I braked for a herd of deer and - a little over an hour later - wound up safe and sound at home with 18 miles under my belt.

But I was not done banging the drum yet. I transitioned into my running shoes (1:09) and was back out the door for my 20 minute run. Somebody gave my legs speed or something because they completely forgot about the 10:15 miles they were doing yesterday and ran around 8s.

I was pumping it home when who should I see out in the middle of the road but Mr. Toad, trying to soak up the last heat of the pavement. A quick glance behind me revealed a speeding car driven by a pack of the town's cruising teenagers.* There was about a block between Mr. Toad and certain death. I had to make a decision fast - and decided to risk it all. I swooped out to the middle of the road, scooped up Mr. Toad (for which he promptly thanked me by peeing on my hand) and placed his cold little body in the grass.

How's that for rhythm?

(*OK, the car was being driven by the town granny who was a block away and creeping up at 10mph, but just go with this here.)

The Hunger

I am not speaking metaphorically here. I'm talking being on my bike and having visions of taking the Sawzall to our peanut butter jar and sawing the narrow top off so I can stick my face right into raw peanut butter and devour every last creamy chunky bit of it.

It's that time of year - the miles and hours are ramping up. Anyone else experiencing the hunger?

Lest I Forget

This has been a great year. These kids have given me joy in ways that I'll never be able to repay. I want to remember...

Explaining contractions - like didn't is did+not, and thinking it would somehow stick better if I told them about muscular contractions... I started down the path to contractions like a woman has in labor and quickly discarded it at their blanched expressions. Then I thought to pull up my sleeve and make a muscle.

"Hooo-eeee!" yelled Big Blue Eyes. We all laughed a little bit, and I continued on to explain how muscular contractions are caused by the shortening of muscle fibers just like we shorten a word - all the while flexing - but was upstaged by the eyelash-batting incredulity and one-man chorus of "Hooo-eee! Man!"

I'm afraid we abandoned contractions that day.

For two of my girls, it's a time of friendship that feels deeper and more secret than the mystery of conciousness. They meet at the couch in the morning to unload their backpacks and catch up on the hours of separation, link arms to walk through the halls - whispering and giggling all the way - accompany each other to the bathroom, together until they have to part ways - on separate buses to separate homes. They earnestly tell me that they never want to be apart.

It's a year of them discovering the links between them, their world, and entities that used to be separate. "I'm really getting into reading now." "I love these books."

It's a year of having to clear space on my cabinet for more autographed drawings of hearts and horses and triathlete teachers - and even one depicting the differences between the types of literary genre.

They break my heart. They are so good. Yet, sometimes I despair because they're what we in the business call a "low" class - overall low achievers who produce less-than-superb work. But man, their hearts are in it.

Right down to spelling. A little girl argued with her peer editor about the spelling of the word "activity" in her story (she wanted "activate"). I finally convinced her that while she can be creative and "own" her ideas, the spellings belong to the greater English-speaking collective.

But inside, I am exuberant that she cares so much. She is a lioness protecting her cubs, fiercely protective of her writing. She is a writer.

Fortune has smiled on me in the shape of a gaggle of 11 year-olds. The world is my oyster.

First Track

You live all week with your head in the sand, searching for a grain of truth - or just checking things off the list. Yet you've got a Mona Lisa smile because in your pocket is your training plan. And on that training plan you've got intervals. For Wednesday.

Wednesday dawns and you look at the list of what must be done before you can start living: School, Meeting, then Intervals. The weather says chance of thunderstorms so you pack two sets of clothes - one set for the track (that you fervently hope to use), and one set for the treadmill (that have been used plenty already).

You toil through the day, engaged in what's meaningful at the moment - but every once in a while lifting your head high enough out of that sand to get a shiver of excitement. Of anticipation. First night on the track.

Finally the students have tumbled out the bus doors. An x on the list. Then it's the interminable meeting where, among other matters of earth-shattering importance, you debate and finally decide on precisely how to spend $6. Crucial meeting - check.

At last you can change into your track clothes. Because it will be the track. Come what may. You have waited through winter's snow and a bout with an edgy heel. Even if you have to battle thunder and lightning, tonight's intervals will be waged on the track.

And so it is.

800 warm-up: You wish you had more pores on your body. To soak it all up. On the track in spring with puddles of water pooling around you, dense air clothing you, birds chirping and the wind whipping across the marsh - bringing spring to your nostrils. More pores needed.

And then it's go time...

1:33 for 400 #1 - There are no more thoughts of spring or birds or even life. This is it. What you've been waiting for. Your legs respond to the momentous occasion and charge like they've been doing it forever.
2:25 Recovery 400 -You smile cuz you know it is good and you have done well.

1:33 for 400 #2 - Your legs feel high and springy, juiced and ready.
2:23 Recovery 400 - You decide that next set your recovery will be shorter because you're ready for another interval at 200.

1:36 for 400 #3 - You remember that you wheeze and your chest hurts when you run fast. You learn things that you never knew before about running. The way your heel strikes when you run, the way your arms pump and reach, the way your quads recoil and spring, all these details reach your conscious mind with a clarity that shoves all else out of the world. There is only you. You. And Running.
1:16 Recovery 200 - It dawns on you: recovery jogs feel good.

1:36 for 400 #4 - You start out strong but then realize you have blown your wad by 50 meters. You start to rationalize and wonder how fast you really should be running these. Is it necessary to push this hard? Doesn't my training plan say to run these at a 5K pace? That certainly is much slower than this.
1:19 Recovery 200 - You get a little tiffed at yourself because you know exactly where those seconds went. You let your legs slow down a little bit while you were diverting your big brain with pacing thoughts.

1:37 for 400 #5 - Over halfway!! You're happy again just to be out here doing it. A bit of sun even peeks out of the clouds.
1:23 Recovery 200 - You start to cough but stop yourself when it feels like a part of you may come up and have to be spat out. After all, you have vowed to leave nothing on the track tonight. Lung included.

1:37 for 400 #6 - You decide that intervals are as tough as you remembered - only worse.
1:33 Recovery 200

1:39 for 400 #7 - Your legs feel fast. In the initial burst, you think, "Shiiit, I'm just getting warmed up!" Then you reach about 40 meters. PUSH is the name of the game for the remaining 360.
1:29 Recovery 200 - You hear the first peal of thunder and chuckle, "Yep, it's that kind of day." Seven down, one to go, one to go...

1:37 for 400 #8 - You know it's number 8, the finale. The last one that you want to last - yet can't wait for to be over. You give it all you've got.

6:04 for Cooldown 800
As soon as you can breathe again, you look around and down - revering the track, thanking it, thanking your legs, the sky, the clouds, the birds, your running shoes... This is what all the waiting was for. Your bliss is nonpareil.

And then you start to wonder... What could I do next time? You give the track a last reverent look and know from the bottom of your soul that this is not good-bye, but a definite...

See you later.

Stealing Faster's Secret

My master's swim coach has been telling me for months to spend more time on my side. He's been very gentle about it, patiently reminding me after a suitable interval of non-improvement has passed. But yes, reminding me. He clothes these reminders in different forms, hoping it will sink in. I fear I've sunk the poor man's analogies. He has told me to:

• Spend more time on my side
• Put my arm over the log
• Catch with my armpit too

Then I ran into Faster at the pool today. I observed him carefully, watching his catch, his pull, his recovery. The man is a marvel - a flippin' torpedo. He seemed to travel 3 yards off of each pull.

Then I noticed his barrel of a belly. Though not huge, it was sizable enough to mark his progress through the pool. It swung from side to side like a pendulum, regular as clockwork.

Eureka! That's when it hit me.

Faster was spending a lot of time on his side. That metronomic belly showed me. I have learned a lot from watching Coach. But he is lean - all muscle, skin and bone. He couldn't show me what Faster did. I can now visualize "on my side," and enact it.

Like Faster, I have a barrel. Except it's higher on my anatomy. Not to be indelicate, but I have "twin barrels". I have never thought of the girls as allies before, but could they be trained to carry their own weight?

Right then and there, I marshaled the troops, instructing them that as soon as I started swimming, they were to look right and then left. Look right and then left... I can't wait to show Coach!

Ha! I have snuck behind enemy lines and stolen the secret! I chuckle and smack my lips as I consume an extra serving of M&Ms. Now, instead of cursing my excess and binding it to my body, I am officially recruiting it in the pursuit of Faster!

Monsters II: Juxtaposition

My loneliness is measured in a night shift.
Hers will last an undetermined,
interminable amount of time.

I look at a calendar and can predict it.
Hers came out of the blue.

My light is on at 6AM to run.
Unexpectedly, hers is on too.
Was she dreaming of him -
and then woke up?

Oh NeighborLady,
I'm sorry for your loss.
Your monsters are
meaner than mine.

Monsters

Sometimes when he's not home
the old monsters come to roost
They perch on my shoulder
and whisper mean things
they make me slow
and indecisive.
Sometimes
when I'm
alone.

They feed me too many M&Ms
and hide my running shoes
and tie me to the couch.
These monsters
really got it
in for
me.

Then the telephone rings to deliver
his strong tones over the line
The monsters trip over
themselves to scurry
off to caverns dark.
Wusses
after
all.

The Smell of the Track

Confession: I made a rookie mistake. I over-wore my shoes and, as punishment, the gods of triathlon banned me from running.

At left: The Culprits - Any guesses as to which heel is hurting?

Last night I decided to see just how badly I could twist the knife. I walked Piper to the track. Just to check it out. Just to see if I was really missing out, or if the triathlon gods have spared my self-pitying, old-shoe-wearing, plantar-fascitis-bearing sorry sack of a self.

They have.

The track still has at least 100 yards of ice and snow; I wouldn't dare to run on this surface yet. YES!!! But there were enough clear parts that I got a whiff of rubbery track seasoned with spring. Ooh, am I ready!

I was able to run this morning. See the HEROES at right. My heel hurts, but it has plateaued to a bearable, non-limpable amount of pain. Doable. As long as I continue to RICE - or at least ICE.

My next intervals shall be on track. (Tee hee. Clever double entendre, no?) By next Wednesday, the snow/ice will be gone, my heel will be healed, and I. Will. Run.

'Til then - I will swim until I'm pruney, bike until my quads burst - and run in moderation. Penitent as I feel, I may even throw in an extra lift. Fair enough, tri gods?

Between Fast and Faster

Today I went swimming and ended up in a lane between 2 men. I recognized both of them. On my right was Fast and on my left was Faster.

Fast has been coming to this pool long before even me. My first attempts at lap swimming took place in his daunting presence. When I first started 3 years ago, I could barely keep up to him for 25 yards. By 200, he had lapped me.

I love it when I see Fast at the pool, because I've been marking myself against him these 3 years. I've gained on him little by little. Though we've never spoken to each other, I know his name, and I'm sure he knows mine. But when we're in the pool, both of us are all business - he even moreso than I. He has one speed. Fast. (Hence the name.)

Today I stuck with him for 200 yards. He's still setting the pace and calling most of the shots, but at the end of that 200, I touched the wall even with Fast.

In the other corner, we have Faster. He is friendlier than Fast, and we've exchanged pleasantries. But not names. He's new to the pool, but I hope he'll keep coming. Today I could barely keep up with him for 25 yards, and yep - he lapped me by 200.

But guess what, I've got three years in me yet. Do you think in 3 years that I could be Faster?

Lap Counter

So Mike Ricci says swim volume. Well, if you're going to swim volume, you need to count laps. Perhaps a lap counter?

Nope, no fancy gizmo for me. I'm a Luddite compared to the lot of you with your i-pods and Garmins and... other stuff. I have a heart rate monitor & watch. Period. So how do I ever manage to count my laps?

I tell organized stories. Mini life histories. For example, a 600 consists of every teacher I had grade 1-12. For the first 25 of each lap, I think of the teacher. I say his/her name at the flip turn and then think of my classmates/academics/important events of that grade level for the last part of that 50 yards. Next 50 = I've been promoted a grade. Yep, totally geeky. But I rarely leave the pool wondering if my time for the 600 can be trusted.

A 500 is my whole family - from Dad to Baby Bro. Man, do they have a lot to say! And I'm a captive audience to each of them for one whole 50...

• Dad tells me to take it easy. (Why am I doing triathlon again??) I interpret that to mean he wants me to have a very relaxed, rolling recovery.
• Mom tells me to be tough. I hear Mom a lot toward the ends of my workouts. She's also the second lap of timed 100s. I hear her saying, "GO!" (BTW, hubby is the first lap of the 100 - even he's not quite as tough as Mom.)
• Eldest Brother makes Popeye faces at me. Yep, he's reminiscing about our childhood, but he's also prompting me to breath as Popeye speaks - out of the corner of my mouth. To minimize how much of my mouth has to come out of the water to draw breath. Eldest Brother has an ulterior motive; he can only complete the swim portion of our annual family triathlon if he has a noodle - and he doesn't want to have to share that noodle with anyone.
• Second Son Brother cheers me on and tells me I rock. He's just proud I'm in the water. In this lap I remember why I'm a triathlete. For the plain old joy of moving smoothly.
  
• Strong Sister reminds me that we are runners - and I'd better be kicking like I mean it. Consistent, tight little kicks are what she demands.
• Sweet Sister reminds me to stretch, R-E-A-C-H and maximize all the height I have on her.
  
• I tell myself to put it all together. Be the Backhoe!
• Little Brother tells me to watch my back. Next year he's finding a "good" triathlete to challenge me at the family tri. I spit back at him to get off his ass and challenge me himself. (I really ought to time just this lap - my adrenaline is surging even as I type this!)
• Little Sis would really like to help me out with some swimming tips but have I heard what happened to her??? OMG, you are never going to believe it...!
• Baby Bro reminds me to position my head correctly and press my chest into the water. Use that natural "buoyancy" that runs in our family to advantage.

With all that yammering, it's a wonder I ever get out of the pool at all. :)

Still a Runner & An Apology

I can still run. I ran a sunny 7-miler with Piper on Sunday morning. It wasn't fast, but it was pretty. Oh, sigh of relief and quiver of elation.

Now I have to apologize to the snow for my nasty little riddle. You see, after my post, we went skiing by the light of the full moon. Ain't no way you could do that in August.

There was beauty in the forest - the dappled light just enough to follow the path. But the stunners were the clearings - open bowls of milky white perfection. We'd had so much snow that these were large tracts of untrammeled powder. We took turns baptizing them - being the first one to swish through the powder. In those places, we were alone in the world together. The first ones. In those places, like reptiles to the sun, we lifted our faces and basked in the moon's glow.

Oh snow, do you forgive me now?

A Riddle

In November
I am cute and fluffy,
novel and exciting.
I make you wax your skis
and wet your lips.

By March I am worn,
I am old and heavy.
I cling to your concrete
and bust your back.

I overstay my welcome and
delay any green,
with a brilliant-white grin.

Who am I?

Time for the Critical Eye

It's been a slacker week for me. I skipped all but my swim workouts and clawed my way through denial of food cravings. I succeeded - until last night. Then the levees broke. Big time. Here are the casualties:

• 1 canister lowfat (even in the 11th hour, I was still trying!) Pringles - except for the last 4 chips and some crumbs. By the time I got to those, even I had tired of their sour cream and oniony deliciousness.
• 2 slices bacon cheeseburger pizza - cut me some slack here; I was still full from the Pringles. Usually I'm good for at least 3 slices.
• 4 (FOUR, cuatro) ice cream sandwiches. Not too full to enjoy a little ice cream.
  

This morning the guilt got me out the door and running. I feel so cleansed now. My cravings have been purged from my system. (I did not literally purge; call me what you will, but I've never been bulimic.) Every once in a while, I need to do this. Binge on all of those uber-icky foods, and then I'm done with them. Back on the straight and narrow.

So, time for the critical eye:
Running - Not so good this week.

Swimming - Inverse proportion to the running; it rocked! I've noticed that when I pick up my running, my swimming suffers. Cut back a little bit, and boy, do I feel like I can cruise.

Biking - Mediocre. I'm mountain biking around town but haven't clocked any long rides. However, biking through snow, sleet, and rain (crazy weather week) has really helped my bike-ed-ness. I feel one with the bike.

Lifting - Skipped all week until today.

Weight - Even while all this craving-clawing was taking place, I managed to lose weight. I'm only 3 pounds up from my Ironman weight now. That's a loss of 5 pounds since January. I'm getting there!

Kegels - No, I am not pregnant! (Call me what you will, but I have never been pregnant.;)) However, I have experienced an increase in, um, urinary urgency and am taking pains to train those muscles as well. It's going quite nicely, thank you.

Why am I telling you this? I am curious. This first came to my attention during Ironman, and exertion seems to exacerbate the condition. Has anyone else experienced this? Is there a causal relationship, or is it due to one of the other bazillion variables (e.g. too much coffee)? Please drop me a comment - or an email if you'd rather not speak of IT in a public forum.

Mitigating factors (AKA Excuses):
I skied 3 hours last weekend, and shoveled snow for a total of the same over the course of this week. My shoulders ached. Plus, I did feel that little nagging sensation at my temples that's my first indicator of overtraining. I think the shoveling and skiing count for more than I'd initially granted them.

So where does that all leave me? With a mixed bag: worried about meeting my 1/2 marathon goal time, but with the sneaking suspicion that the skiing and shoveling have strengthened me in some heretofore unappreciated ways.

Finally, food: I am ready for a salmon-spaghetti-vegetable week. Hold me to it.

Critical Eye out!

Was it the Gas or the Ladies?

I am quite a feminine woman. But I am also a feminist. Equality for all. No prejudices based on sex. My husband has always agreed with this and we've prided ourselves on being stereotype-busters. But... is my husband the man he has always claimed to be? All of this snow has created a revealing situation.

History: Chris has never shoveled our driveway. I am the resident snow-shoveler. And if a neighbor is unable to shovel, I shovel for them too. Which I have been doing for NeighborLady these past few weeks.

BUT, this weekend Chris got home from work on Saturday morning and couldn't get in our driveway. So he stumbled into the garage, discovered where the shovels hang, and proceeded to shovel a path into our driveway. He gets no more than 3 shovelfuls flung when NeighborLady comes out and offers him the use of her just-purchased snowblower.

Now my husband has always bucked the stereotype that "the smell of gas gets (his) blood pumping," as my father once put it. Every male in the room had hastened to agree - except Chris. (That's my boy!)

So on Saturday morning, it was "with reluctance" that he assented to use NeighborLady's snowblower to do our driveway. And hers. And the neighborlady's across the street. And the neighborlady right next door. And the sidewalk for the couple across the street. And the family right next to them. By this time, I had awoken and peered out the window to watch all of this. I rubbed my eyes. Yep, it was Chris.

He cut quite a dashing figure, sort of like Arnold in The Terminator, all square-shouldered and relentless. The snow would blow up and blast him, obscuring him from view. Moments later, he would emerge from the haze - still square-shouldered, still moving the snow. I wasn't the only one who noticed.

Everywhere the guy went, women poured out of their houses to chitchat with him (at least it looked like chatting from my vantage point!), and daintily shovel some ancillary piece of property.

Now who should happen to call, but my dad. Naturally, I filled him in. He clearly enjoyed the scene as much as I did - with not a little gloating, "Oh yeah, nothin' like that smell of gas in the morning." Just then, the plot thickened. NeighborLady followed him into our driveway with her shovel. Dad suggested posting "No Trespassing" signs. On Chris.

Sunday morning was a repeat. With the addition of a plate of homemade "thank you" cookies. Hmm... so what am I to blame (thank?) for this transformation: Was it the smell of gas - or the scent of a woman? And which way do I want this question answered? I mean, if he's been a secret gearhead all this time, what does that do for women's - or men's - lib?

On the other hand, what if it's the ladies? Or maybe that's OK, as long as he's only blowing their snow. Huh, I can hear it already, "But Honey, I was just blowing her snow."

Oh, what a quandary! Do I buy him a snowblower of his own? Bake more cookies? Dab gasoline behind my ears?

Spring cannot come too soon! Out damn snow!

The Snow Came

Friday Night

Piper and bosom buddy Maggie romp at the forest. Notice the snow in front of Maggie.

Saturday Morning

This is the same forest on Saturday morning. We skied again at 10PM, for which I put skis on outside of our front door and skied down the streets to get to the trail. I love beating the plows out the door! The snow was drifted so high in spots that it created waves that rivaled those at Mavericks. Fourteen MPH winds kept a steady sheet of snow sworling off their front edges. Piper plunged right over the top of one and was nearly lost in the avalanche of snow. I, having spent time in California observing surfers, "caught" the wave from the side and managed to "surf" it to the bottom. Watch and learn, Piper.

Sunday Afternoon

Here we are at the forest yet again. I gotta say, my training partner rocks. The picture at right is Piper struggling through a drift near the end of our first loop. Yet he burst into the second loop without missing a beat. Now that's stamina!

Meanwhile, back at the ranch....

And no, we don't need to make any pronouncements on who possesses the most intelligence at our place.

The. Snow. Came. Yay!!!!!

Thin Skin

I want you to know that it was bullying did me in. Made me anorexic. Not you or Dad or the others, but the spitballs. The two BFF turning their backs on me and hating me for 3 months. For no reason. No, for the very good reason that we were middle school girls and that's what middle school girls do. Haze each other and make the outsider baste in her own hateful skin.

Too good of a vocabulary. Too.... everything. Not their friend. Someone to whom you say mean things, whom you get the 8th grade girls to taunt. Whom you call the hated names that her siblings called her and that she shared with you in confidence. When you used to be best friends.

But who allows that to happen to herself? Who goes to the nurse's office, the counselor's office but doesn't say, "My so-called friends are being bitches"? Who allows themselves to be bullied?

Me. I did. Because somehow I was a shameful enough person to deserve it. That's what I'm getting now. Why it still stings now. Because they were wrong and I didn't stand up for myself. Because it's my pattern. They were Hammers and I was an Anvil.

There are bad people in the world. Hammers who will never understand the secret life of Anvils. The Hammers can't even begin to conceive that someone outside of themselves may hold a shard of truth. That is the face of evil. The cocksure, I've-got-all-the-answers-face. We Anvils, on the other hand, grab for that piece of truth that has just barely eluded us. That everyone but us must have.

Huh. That's it.

I am out in this world with the Hammers. Where they can lift their snouts to the air and smell my vulnerability, my uncertainty, my need. And then circle in for the kill.

I have been "over-sensitive" from the time I was shoved from the womb. I need to toughen up, get a thicker skin. But dammit, I don't want to! Partly because I'm just plain old stubborn, partly because it is hard to not be me. Believe me, I've tried.

But also because there is at least one perk to being sensitive... I have lived many lives. I have felt and experienced and intuited that which was not happening to me. Because I'm never sure. Because I can't avoid looking at the Other and listening and thinking, "What would it be like? What is it like in that skin? Believing what they believe, knowing what they know?"

I'm not sure what this sensitivity gets me - certainly nothing tangible. But somehow I like it. I like seeing the Falstaffs and the Hamlets and the Katherines. I like knowing them - even if it is only from the obtuse angle of inference. I like wavering on the edge of my skin and letting that translucent self blur just enough to understand.

And that's something the Hammers will never get.

Nor take from me.

Beauty Seeker

I sip the sunlight that bathes us in light
Plunge myself into the warmth of his chest
Smile at the mud on the prancing paws
Throw the stick - agaaaaaain
Continue crunching the snow
and its crispety crust.

Run fast just because
it feels good to breathe.

Nod nightly to Orion, Cass, Big and Little Dip.
Tingle to my fingertips when Sarah Brightman hits the high notes.

I am skeptical of the commercial trappings of thrill-seeking.
But Beauty-seeking?

Drink up.

How to Make a Pussy Purr

Build him his own house, replete with heating pad, mousetoy-sized holes, and place it well, well beyond the reach of the puppy.






You see, it used to work to share, but that was like 72 pounds ago...


Wanna make your pussy purr? Contact the WoodMan at 101 Triteacher Alley.

High Mileage Week

Woof. It has been a week. I'm thinking back to last weekend and it seems like it was months ago. It has been a week of contrasts and extremes...

I have been breaking-dishes angry and tenderly loving - to the same person.
(No dishes were harmed in the production of this post.)

I have not eaten at all and then eaten sushi to excess.
I slept 4 hours one night and 12 on another.

We left our hamlet of 1500 for a city of 250,000
but still found a cornfield to trek through.

I have played nurse at home and at school,
pushing one 5th grader in a wheelchair, and butterfly-taping another's chin until stitches could be had.

I blistered my fingers lacing and tying 24 pairs of ice skates.
A nurse cleaned and bandaged them for me.

I didn't miss or slight a workout until I was sure everything was OK.
Then I let inclination dictate and netted a 2 hour walk instead of a 3 mile run.

I was drained
and then rejuvenated.

I have been, I have felt,
I have lived.
I have gotten my mileage out of life this week.

Thank You

You've heard my sadness,

- THANK YOU -

Now hear my joy;
I'm off for the weekend
to play with my boy.

Troubles of the Heart

Phone rings at 3:30 AM
The worst time for a call

Fears confirmed
Chest pains and fainting
To the ER I go

Pale and confused
In a bed he lay
EKG, blood draws
Family heart history?

Affirmative
Grandpa, Uncle.
Bad, just bad.

But no! I'm his wife
and I can assure you, Doc,
his heart is in the right place.

Test results?
Yes, for now it is.

Exhaaaale.
He's mine
for while longer
at least.

Grateful.
Valentine's Day 2007.

What Do You Want?

What do you want?

A tri bike. No. TWO tri bikes - a custom-built steel and a carbon fiber equally outfitted. In my garage for 2 weeks this summer. I'd ride the blazes out of them and then purchase the one that put more smiles on my face.

What do you want?

Ok, Ok. Freedom from desire. From the constant ache, craving, clawing, anticipation of the next thing. To be in the present and live here. In this time. In this place. Inner peace.


Humph. Better stick with the tri bike fantasy.

I Feel Good!

Like Scary Good.

I did my first interval workout in 2 years last night - on the treadmill (TM). And I taught myself how to program TM for an interval workout. That shows you, my friends, that I am investing in TM. That I think I will need to reach out to the beast and tame it. To this end, I am renaming her; hereforward, she is Truly Mine (TM).

She helped me run fast last night. Oh, the bliss of running fast again! I love it. I'm a junkie for those sweat-wringing, heart-pounding, heavy-breathing intervals.

She helped me dream - imagine - that I might just be able to meet my goal for my 1/2 marathon in April. She gave me evidence last night. I saw 6:53 for 5 quarter miles. Now 13.1 miles of 7:09 that does not make. But it opens the door to it. I soooo want to believe in her. And in me.

Then I had the audacity to run this morning. In the cold. (See Frosted Flake on right.) And I felt good again. Something's coming together here.

I feel good! Na-na-na-na-na-na-na!!!

You Need My Job

Fifth graders are the best kept secret in teaching. There's the legendary sweetness of 4th graders - resulting in landslides of applications to teach that grade. Sixth graders are known to be smart and impressionable. So where's the press for the 5th graders?




Exactly! No one extolls the virtues of the 5th grader. So let it be me who says: they rock! They are sweet, and now, about halfway through the year, they are getting IT. They're becoming more insightful about themselves and their world. And they talk about it. In fact, they ooh and ahhh about it.

One kid is "getting to be a better reader," as he and his huge smile point out the multisyllabic word that he has just decoded.

Another formerly-reluctant reader leaves her book on my desk with a sticky note instructing me to "read from p.146 to the end of the book," in which the main character is radically altered and realizes it.

Yet a third, my needy little tantrum-thrower, slugs a classmate in the morning, swallows another session on "What other choices can you make when you get angry?," and comes to me in the afternoon with her new library book, When I get Mad, "cuz I have problems with my anger."

Seriously, you need my job! :)

Tag #2: Ironman

Hee, hee, I'm really milking this tag. My apologies for the shame I bring upon your house, Bubba. Ready for #2, kids?

2. Describe a memory from your most recent triathlon.

With Ironman, I really can't describe "a memory." It's so much more than that. I like to think of it really, in 3 (very creative) phases: Before, During and After....

Before: Becoming Ironman
The Becoming (as xt4 so aptly put it) is HUGE. It involved more training and dedication than I was even sure I was capable of. It meant believing in myself and pushing myself - and setting limits. I had to decide what price I was willing to pay for the race. And it was a decision I had to keep on making.

What sacrifice is too big? Family time? Quality of instruction provided for my students? Possible long-term damage to my knees? Expense upon expense upon expense? And with each new roadblock, I made an informed decision and juggled and compromised - or just flat-out drew the line in the sand.

All those moments of crisis in the "Before" had to be dealt with. You can't look past that. It was really baptism by fire - over and over again. I was being shaped into iron, one choice at a time.

That sounds really rough, but it wasn't all tough decisions, of course. It was also the moments of stunning self-actualization and pure bliss:

• Riding down a hill at 45 mph, whooping at the top of my lungs.
• The afterglow in meeting the next benchmark in distance. Topping out at 6 hours of riding. Swimming for flippin' 2 hours straight!! Woof.
• The ability to eat whatever the hell I wanted without guilt.
  
• Pride in finding that what my body wanted was tuna and lettuce and garden tomatoes.

Yes, it was good, too.

During: Becoming Ironman
Then September 10th came. And I loved it. I have so many images that still give me shivers:

• All of the bikes neatly racked in the transition area, lit by those early morning strobes.
• Running up the helix through the tunnel formed by a wildly-cheering crowd.
• Handing my bike off to my brother and kissing my dad.
• At mile 23, telling a bemused, smiling husband that this was fun and there might be more of these in my future.

Madison is a beautiful place for a race.

After: Being Ironman
Ironman is the gift that keeps on giving.
I'm still inspired by it. And what's more - the people around me are inspired by it. The day I got back to school after IM was picture day. I wore my finisher's shirt and medal. I then sent this picture with my thank you cards.

Five months later, it is still on my parents' fridge. Strong Sister keeps it propped on her nightstand.

Ironman has meant so much to me and to those in my life. Immediately after Ironman, I was blue - mourning all of the things I'd lose now that Ironman was over. Five months out, I'm realizing that the Iron Me is the new default setting. All of those qualities I'd gained through Becoming, by Becoming, are still here. They are better felt than expressed, but have to do with confidence and self-reliance, belief that I can get the job done.

From here forward, everything is shaped through the lens of Becoming and Being Ironman. By default.

Tag: First Triathlon

Bubba said to do this meme, so I will. I mean, when a guy who runs a 50k in sub-zero temps says, "Jump," you say "How high?" However, I'm going to do this one my way as you'll see.

First, in case you're wondering, You, JWM, Spence, and Steve are it!

1. Describe a memory from your first triathlon ever.

2. Describe a memory from your most recent triathlon.

3. What's the most embarrassing thing that has ever happened to you in a tri?

4. What's the most thrilling thing that's happened to you in a tri?

5. What is something you discovered about yourself by doing triathlons?

6. What is The Big Goal that you're working towards?

Next, I'm going to take my good old time with each one of these. Indulge me; when there's a windchill of -28F, I need some good tri memories to keep me warm. On to the meme...

1. Describe a memory from your first triathlon ever.

Flashback to 1999. I'm standing on a beach with 30 buff females feeling very self-concious about my bra sticking out from under my swimsuit, thinking, "Ooh, what am I in for here?" I have always been a runner, but when my mother-in-law's hospital decided to host an olympic-distance triathlon, I thought, "Why not?"

I signed up 2 weeks before the race. My "training" consisted of hobby swim/bike/run. It had been a superb summer with a stay at a cabin on a lake in northern Wisconsin. My husband and his dad fished all day while I swam alongside the boat or hit the trails to run and bike. Nirvana.

At the tri, I'm way too scared to talk to any of my competitors but soak up the scene, already making plans for next year's improvements. Then the bang, and we were off.

The swim is unlike anything in my experience. I am, of course, overwhelmed by the slash and burn technique of the whole scene and swim way off course to avoid being scratched/crawled over/ thumped yet again. Yet I still almost drown because my adrenaline is high and there ain't no way I'm slowing down to breathe. I come out of the swim alive and stop at the porta-potties.

"Aren't you supposed to be racing?!" my husband scolds me. I give him a tremulous but excited smile and, with shaking hands, don my newly-purchased bike helmet. I'm off.

I must have actually exited the swim in front of some other racers because I get passed non-stop in the bike portion of the race. I have a eureka moment when one of my passers cheers, "Woah, you're tough to be doing this on a mountain bike!" I continue to pedal for all I'm worth - and vow to have a bike with skinny tires by next year.

Hydration plan? My husband is standing at the side of the road, holding out a bottle of water. It is the first time I realize how fast I am going relative to someone standing still. In other words, the bottle pass is tricky. My in-laws laugh, wave hand-made signs, and shout encouragement.

Before I know it, it's time to run. If you have not tri-ed before, you have no way of knowing how absolutely bumble-fucked you feel getting off of a bike after going full-tilt for 26 miles and then trying to run. I couldn't have walked a straight line, much less run one! I, the marathoner, am astonished at my traitorous legs, but finally marshal them and charge onto the course. I am sure that I am going to die numerous times. I'm hot, my legs are tired, my chest hurts, the scratch on my face adds sunburn to its litany of woes - but I just.keep.going. One foot in front of the other. I pass my cheering-section, but can barely lift my head to acknowledge them. They cheer louder, and leap-frog to different points along the course.

BLUUUUUUUUR.

Finish line. 2:53 and I've done it! Hugs, tears, weariness, - but strangely - eery, bubbling elation. I'm hooked. I've done that course every year since and PR'd on it at 2:32. Slightly better than 2:53.

Ooh! I'm warm now. Thanks for the tag, Bubba - just what I needed. :)

Up next, #2 of the tag. Ironman, here we come!

Hover and then - BAM!

That's my new race strategy. Courtesy of Piper at 11:30 last night. He hovers by the bed, waiting for Chris or me to go to the bathroom and then BAM - he's up and in your spot before you can say Bob's your uncle. Very effective.

Need a race strategy? Get a dog. I'm listening to mine. I'm going to hang on the heels of other racers this summer and then BAM, pass 'em at the water stop or porta-potties. Ha, victory is in the bag.

OK, so the name may need work... what about Lurk before you leap?

Cold and Clear

So Cold
You put on every garment that you own and then add your mother-in-law's parka, mittens, and snow pants. Just for good measure.
Your sweat compacts as frost within all those layers.
Your puppy is the first one to want to turn around and head for home.

It's one of those winter nights where a half moon bounces off of the snow and makes 9PM look like dusk or like 2:30 AM on an Alaskan summer night. It will never get dark tonight.

So Clear
You can safely venture into new fields on tonight's walk.
You can make out the individual twigs on the individual branches of the trees.
You can see that the dogs have unearthed (unsnowed?) some bit of carcass - all fur and sinew - but thankfully dark enough that you can't discern just exactly the creature it was.
The sidewalls of your footsteps in the snow cast a shadow that makes the spaces between your steps glow iridescent white.

So beautiful.

Finite Quantities, Finite Possibility

I'm beginning to think that the other side of aging is wisdom. Yes, I have creakiness and wrinkles that I've never had in the past, but maybe those creaks and wrinkles are signposts showing me the way to something more.

I've always wanted to do Something Big with my life. Something Big once meant becoming a famous singer (middle school & high school), then it meant going to the Peace Corps (high school and college). It has meant Ironman, marrying my best friend, helping my family and friends, being the best person I can be. But I also have gotten bogged down in the past by a) spending energy and worry on prissy obsessions - stuff that I couldn't change or even if I could, it wouldn't matter in the big picture. b) trying to do too much. I've drowned in the infinite possibilities. I haven't said "no," and I end up spreading myself way too thin.

Now I see that my wrinkles and papery cheeks are telling me that my life is a finite quantity. My slowness to recover is telling me that I have only so much cognitive and physical energy left. They're waking me up and making me think about how I am going to spend those finite quantities. I want to make sure I'm spending them on Something Big. Not piece-mealing them and doing a partial job on everything.

So I'm stepping off of the hamster wheel wherein I tease out every possible outcome of situation x at least a bazillion times. I'm going to accept the things about (primarily) people that I cannot change. Shut the door.

And open the door to Something Big. I know myself now. I know my strengths and my limits. I'm good at teaching. I have a passion for it, especially for the "gray area" kids. And I have a gift for relating to them. I also have the training to teach them to read and the income to buy enticing books for them to read.

The vision? I have the belief and zeal of a religious convert about education being the key to lifting these kids out of their environments. I believe in reading as the key to improving their lives, both economically and metaphysically. I know that a better education means a better standard of living for them.

But I want even more for them. I want enlightenment for them. I don't want them to just see the stars in life, I want them to experience the richness in picking out Cassiopeia, Orion and the Big Dipper. That will be my gift to them. My Something Big.

And should I forget or lose sight, I have a built-in reminder system. Thanks, Wrinkles and Creakiness.

Swimmin' in it

Slipping my hand into the glove
that is Mandie's bubbles,
Coming blind out of my flip turn
and straining for the percussion
of her kick.

If it is there, I float into it.
If it is not, I reach for it.

Then it is my turn to lead
and I am a slippery eel
sluicing through the water
catching more than my share
faster than I have a right to be.

It's even OK
when Swimming Partner
with the unfortunate halitosis
catches me between sets.
Breathing hard and
blowing her nastiness
across three lanes.

It's all good
even to the grocery store
where my favorite bagger boy
wheels my cart to the car
unloading his self-conciousness
to reveal glimpes of a cat-loving
mama's boy.

I'm swimmin' in it tonight, kids.

The Secret Life of Bathrooms

Why is it that all the good stuff evolves in school bathrooms?

In the last 3 days, I've had numerous occasions in which I had to use the little girls' bathroom. Experience has taught me to brace myself, draw a deep breath, and give in to the urge to sing, "Little girls, little girls, everywhere I turn I can see them." It's been YEARS since I've seen Annie. But surely this is the place where Ms. Hannigan found her soul:

• It never fails that 2 out of 3 of the toilets aren't flushed.
• Don't even ask about the toilet seats.
• It never fails that the sinks are dripping with slimy green soap. (Does ANY of it make it onto their hands?)
  
• It sometimes fails (thank god!) that a little kindergarten girl is in the next stall talking to herself about... oh, let me just use her words, "Oop, another one." Tuneless humming interrupted only by grunting. Then, "Hey, who's in here?" Then tee hees herself silly when I say, "It's a teacher." (What more can you say??)

I always vow that next time I'll wait until the faculty bathroom's empty.

But at least I don't have to go inside the boys' bathroom.

Today we teachers were sitting in the lounge enjoying a little chat and a laugh and lunch. (Yep, that's what we do in there.) When we hear a huge thud on the northwest wall. My classroom's on the south wall, Teacher #2's is on the northwest wall just west of the bathrooms, and Teacher #3's is on a whole different wing.

But still, all three of us pop up and race for the door. I am the last one to spring into action and pull the door to the inner sanctum shut behind me with the cunning instincts that make me a top-notch teacher; Never leave the Teachers' Lounge open to surveillance. We fly down the hall with T2 in the lead.

Within seconds our little SWAT team has the boys' bathroom surrounded. That's where things get dicey. We exchange quizzical looks that clearly indicate, Who's going in??

T3 and I figure it's really T2's turf so we hang back. T2's a trooper and bucks up, bangs on the door and yells, "What's going on in there?!"

Out staggers a 6th grade boy, mumbling about a fight and another boy who's still hanging in the bathroom.

Turns out they escaped the holding cell (AKA the cafeteria) after bolting the noon feeding and thought they'd rowdy it up in the bathroom.

Ha! Little did they know that we teachers don't rest. We're just sitting in the lounge with our ears to the walls. Ready to change into our SWAT gear at a moment's bang and leap down the halls... to wherever the current crisis is located.

Strength: My Mom

The air was thick
The barn aisles slick
My 13 year-old body coated with sweat.

The cow-stink of manure
weighed heavy in my nostrils
humid air with assault power.

The manure-producers
sagged under their heavy garb
of surcingle and milker.

I watched the milk first gush
out of their bodies,
then trickle as their bags drained dry.
Then I'd switch the milker to the next bossie
and she'd have her gush-to-trickle moment to shine.

Alone in a barn of 73 females - milking.
Peter played go between,
catching up on the dipping if I needed him,
feeding the cows, and checking on Sarah.

Sarah was manning the shooter.
Wagons pulled in,
Sarah switched on the hydraulics
to shoot the fresh-chopped sileage up
up into the 70 foot silos.

Empty wagon out
Full wagon in
Repeat.

But wet and heavy was the sileage
blocked arteries often needed unclogging
and Sarah would have to ascend
to beat at them with desperate fists
to comb at it with a fork
to poke it, prod it, move it along.

Then the clouds unleashed.
The torrents began
The black sky gave birth to sheets
to pound down and soak her
and block out her view
Her 10 foot leap to the ground

I, in the barn, felt relief at last
the humidity condensing to cleansing rain.

To my ears came sounds of wild laughter
between the thunderous peals.
They're laughing at me again
was all I could think.
When Peter burst into the barn.

Sarah has a fork through her foot!
Sarah jumped onto a fork and it's through her foot!
We need to get Mom! We need to get Mom!

Out to be vigilant I went
To stand by my sister
who dragged herself
out of the way of the rocking wagon.
With a fork hoe stuck through her foot.

Red-scarved, sunburned, halo-auraed Mom came
and saw Sarah
She gritted her teeth
They were field work dusty brown.

Go into the barn.
She didn't waste words
We didn't waste time

She grasped that fork and pulled it right out.
She grasped that fork and pulled it right out.

Sarah has the scar.
I have the wonder.

Sneakin' Stinkin' Blues

Stage 1: Hide 'n' Seek
Steadfastly ignore their presence...
Keep truckin' on through, acting as if.
Smile and teach at school.
Work out, eat, socialize, sleep in the after hours.

Stage 2: Slip-up
Let them creep into the after hours...
Feel like being on nodding acquaintance only with 100% of humanity.
Finally get left alone.
Don't know quite what it was I wanted to do with myself.

Mozart is annoying.
Can't find anything decent on Sirius.
Maybe Billy Joel will cheer me up. (Snort at own perversity.)

Skip swim workout.
Ski 15 minutes, freeze fingers, go home.
A good book would be nice.

Eat lots of food:
Spaghetti supper.
3 bowls of cereal.
Gorp grazing.

Re-shovel the driveway.
Almost smile when Piper chases snow.
(OK, allow self full smile and laughter; 80 pound puppies bounding and leaping and sliding all over the place for a snowball that explodes into a million tiny pieces when it hits the ground are FUNNY.)

Stage 3: Proclaim it. Own it.
ALL RIGHT! I, TRITEACHER, AM IN A FUNK!
OUT OF SORTS! DEPRESSED!
PISSED AT THE WORLD!
WANNA DITCH MY OWN SKIN!

Ha! Take that you Dirty Blues Bastard.
I am looking you right in the face.
I see you there.
Now come and get me.

I dare you.

Stage 4: Move on. At last. Please?

Out with the Old, In with the New

Out with the old...

These hiking boots are being retired after 13 years of service. In this photo (cropping inspired by Anne's profile photo), they are hiking into the Colorado Rockies. They've also...

a) Waded through the waist-deep Mighty McKinley River, whose gray silt retired a pair of once-white socks.
b) Toe-kissed the iridescent blue of a glacier.
c) Hoisted the burden of 70-pound packs bearing a hiking diet of oatmeal, gorp, and the occasional, decadent Diet Pepsi. And then stood by a diarrhea-stricken owner 5 days into Yosemite.
d) Ascended into the fjords surrounding Bergen, Norway, bearing their wearer through their depths and out to the other side.
e) Explored their home state of Washington, picking up ash and gravel from Mount Saint Helens and carrying it to neighboring Mount Hood, Oregon.
f) Tiptoed across the lava fields of Etna.
g) Cooled themselves in Michigan, Superior, Pacific, Atlantic, Mediterranean, and a certain Spanish pantano.
h) Surmounted the 500 foot bluffs at Devil's Lake and trammeled the Ice Age's leavings: morraines, eskers, drumlins, and kettles.
h) Lead a Weimaraner puppy down Lake Superior's rocky Canadian shore.

I think they deserve the rest, don't you?

And in with the new...

You've got big shoes to fill, Asolo.

Triteacher Unplugged

Generally, I am a nice person. Nice and good. Usually.

Scene: The gym.
In walks Jared Jockhard from the school where I teach. Note: I've never had JJ in class so I haven't had time to probe for his sensitive side. Nor should I even know JJ's POA or who he is. But he is the kind of kid who EVERY TEACHER knows. I had my first run-in with him my first year in this district. He's a conceited asshole who hasn't matured with age.

So into the gym he struts and conscientiously avoids looking at me. Two can play at that game. I don't acknowledge him either. Then my brain gives a little yelp... he's getting onto a spin bike. Hee, hee. I'm on a spin bike. And while Jared Jockhard could benchpress me, wrestle me to the floor and pin me in 0 seconds flat, he is no biker. And he has a HUGE ego. Huge egos like to compete.

He has chosen a bike one row behind and three bikes down from mine. Suddenly there is no one else in this gym except this little miscreant who called me a bitch and me.

My warm-up is officially over. Payback time, mister.

I know he is watching me and I increase my pace - just a little bit. I want to lull him. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see that he's matching my cadence. Time to set the hook. I ostentatiously turn up my tension and pick up speed. I do 3 1-minute reps, with 1-minute recoveries in between. Then I do a climbing set. Then another speed interval. Climbing, Speed, Climbing, Speed - til I don't know if I'm coming or going.

Neither does JJ. Covert glances reveal a red face, locomotive-breathing, and more sweat than I shed during my entire Ironman. I almost feel sorry for him. Almost.

I have one set left. Killer climbs. You come out of the saddle and turn the tension until you can't stand it anymore and then stay there until you break out, e.g. your momentum has built and you can spin even at that high tension. Then you let the tension off and sit back down for bare seconds cuz you need to repeat this as many times as you can in a minute.

JJ is still hanging with me. By this time, I'm sure he must know that I know he's watching me and must further know that this is a pissing match.

Then again, I never have been sure how highly-evolved he is.

Yet, the little sucker won't give. Damn. I do 2 more sets of killer climbs - one minute rests in between - and then I give. I go into my cooldown. I'm ready to call him the better man.

Suddenly, he gets off of his bike and staggers out into the hallway. I peek out the door and there he lays, stretched out on the floor, beggin' that baby for mercy.

"Hey, Jared, (surprised)... you OK (concerned)?"

"Unhngh... I felt so good on the bike. Now I think I'm gonna puke."

"Need some water or anything?" Obviously out of my depth; I've never cracked anyone before!

"No, I just need to lay here."

"Um... I'm gonna clean up my bike and then I'll check back on you, K?"

"Whatever." Huh, he's starting to feel better.

When I return, JJ has apparently mustered the strength to lug himself into the locker room to lick his wounds in private. Too bad, I was gonna ask if he wanted to do abs with me...

2006 Mantras for Hire

In 2006, I had some mantras that consistently served me well. It was the year of "Heat." I am retiring these mantras and submitting them for whomever wishes to adopt them... Let the bidding begin!

You need to make your own heat. I needed to "make my own heat," light my own fire, keep myself going through the long training rides, swims and runs of IM training. That self-determination also kept my enthusiasm and belief in this alive. I did the vast majority of training on my own and had to motivate myself to get out the door and stay out the door until my workout was completed. These were the longest workouts of my life. This year was all about LONG and SLOW. I became long and slow... And "I make my own heat" struck a chord that helped me find the steely determination to just. keep. going.

Caveats with this mantra: Beware. Once the fire is lit, warmth literally spreads throughout your body, consuming everything in its path. You may wind up in the women's (or men's) locker room after some workouts prancing around naked until your body temp allows you to accept clothing.

Your heat comes from within. This statement by a volunteer at Ironman Wisconsin reminded me that I do indeed make my own heat, within me. It lead to the crowning moments (approximately 7 hours worth) of Triteacher Internal Combustion. I completed, survived - did - that cold, rainy 112 mile bike ride of September 10th. I hung on and endured, through hands too numb to shift or open a Gu. My heat came from within. NO question of it. Wasn't anywhere else it could have come from. Thanks to that heat, I am Iron.

Catch with this motto: You may meet and exceed all of your goals, leading you to wonder... what next??

BUT then you can just borrow from me at the end of next year. CUZ you bet your ass I'm gonna have some good mantras this year. I'm already working on 'em...

Powder

Do you ever get the feeling that some things are just yours?

No matter how long it's been since I've been on skis, I get on them and they are mine. The feeling is mine. Even though my quads were aching from yesterday's ski, today's drive consisted of getting out there again, to race down the hills we'd been on before and whose icy tracks now meant speed. And to hit the trails I had missed yesterday, to baptize the virgin powder with the twin tracks of my skis.

Thinking the same thought that came to me last year: I want to be buried in powder. Let its beauty surround me and swallow me up. It is a blissful feeling of oneness with the cold air, the slooshing of my skis, the perpetual motion of my body in unity with the snow, the sky, the whole world around me.

Somewhere in this happiness is the acceptance of my mortality. When I ski, I make peace with... everything. Somehow my joy in this simple mortal act of gliding forward on snow - that interplay of energy - makes me know that everything is all right. And always will be.

Click Heard Around the World

I'm sure you heard it... right around 12:30 PM CST. From my Wisconsin pool to Chicago and Cleveland, from Vermont to SoCal.

CLICK!

That's when I realized that I needed to be the backhoe. All of those playsessions with my nephew have finally realized their ulterior motive. You see, I now know how to catch... My arm is just like the arm of that backhoe. The more water I scoop up, the more I can shove out behind me. So I tested my new thinking on my 8 x 100s.

Just like a good little back hoe, I kept my arm nice and high and picked up a BIG - I'm talkin' HUGE - pile of water. And did I just let that water go? No! I used my hydraulics to thrust it out behind me, and then I powered into the next pile.

Result??? Ha! My 100s were all 1:25s today. I have not been able to maintain that speed - ever. And I was leading! Yay!

Thanks, Jake. I owe you one. And I suspect I know how I can repay you... :)

Yin and Yang

My brother is a Catholic priest.
I am an atheist.

He weighs 350 pounds and smuggles candy bars into his room.
I was anorexic in high school and a compulsive overeater in college.

He drove six hours to see me the night before my Ironman.
I would walk across hot coals for him.

He probably prays for me.
I invite him on bike rides and walks with me.

We love each other and will break bread on Christmas Eve.

Peplum

People fascinate me. And once in awhile, someone needs to have a post written in their honor. I met one such woman today...

There she sat, a woman stunning because of her largeness, her insane obesity. The other women flitted about her, drones around their Queen Bee. Her hands were firmly planted on her knees, her ample bottom encased in its floral swimsuit, huge breasts sagging into the part at which I only shot covert glances - her peplum draped between her knees, blocking the light coming from beneath the bench.

I found myself drawn in too, hanging on every word of the racy joke she was telling between pants, futzing with my shampoo and conditioner so I could draw out the time when I'd need to turn on the shower and lose her thread.

She was mesmerizing. As Fatima in T.C. Boyle's Water Music... or a female Falstaff from Shakespeare's King Henry the Fourth. Both are highly sought after characters whose very corpulence embodies the everyman appeal they have; they are all-encompassing.

Encounter

I pull my legs tightly to my chest, eeking out the last minutes of sunlight before I'll mount my bike and head home. Drips from my swimsuit plop into the water below. I shift a bit more, finding a spot to accomodate myself on this hard board pier. I have dolphined, I have swum, I have tasted my red lake water. I am pure, holy, and relaxed.

And then I see him. The swirls in the water alert me to his presence. They lead my gaze to a small, pointy face with over-sized whiskers poking out just above the water line. He is aware of me too. Our eyes lock.

He breaks the spell, diving. Only to surface a few yards closer. Then he begins his show: swimming toward me in long s-shaped sweeps. I am shivering now, but this little being won't let me go. He pulls me in, keeps me on the pier watching his lazy arcs, dives, and teases. Sometimes he resurfaces closer to me, like the first time, and sometimes he's farther away.

I wonder about him. Is he as curious about me as I am about him? Does he love this lake, this water, the way I do? Are we cosmically linked? I smirk at the idea, but am unable to leave him.

Then he dives and doesn't resurface. Huh? Was I just ditched by an otter?

I uncoil and pedal home. Eighteen years later, I remember our encounter. And the 17 year old girl who couldn't wait to get to the lake to swim after barn chores were done. Who loved animals and solitude and sunlight on red lakes. And who was chosen by an ottter - if only for a few minutes' teasing.

Christmas Come Early

Remember when you were a kid and you could just stare at your Christmas tree for hours? I have visceral memories of my brother and me sitting in front of our tree, just gazing at it. And it was more than the anticipation of presents. Sitting there awed by the lights and the way they made the garland twinkle, steeped in the piney smell... feeling warm, loved, and loving.

I remembered that feeling last night as Chris and I sat gazing at Piper. You see, Piper had surgery yesterday. Right on the heels of me posting that nasty poem about him not being manly, he had to go take on some barbed wire. To the tune of 5 stitches. And since he had to be put "completely under" (reassuring words), the vet asked if we would like him neutered right away too.

Aw, man!?! Is there any irony here? In his venture to prove his manliness, he ends up in a situation where he is going to be permanently un-"manned." Poor Piper.

So there we were without our puppy until 6:00 last night. No licks when I got home from school, no one constantly under Chris's and my feet. We needed our dog back! At 6:00 sharp, we were at that vet's office. Piper staggered out to the car with us and slept, snoring alternating with whimpering, all the way home.

We pulled our mattress into the living room and put his bed right next to it. Then we just sat there together. Looking at him. Counting his heartbeats, soothing his whimpers, being there every time he opened his eyes. It felt like those Christmases. Watching a tree where nothing much was happening. But there was a whole lot happening. And we all felt it.

Christmas come early.

Pusilanimous Piper

Pugilist he is not
Barks at benches
Whimpers at fleas
Runs into trees

A guard dog he
Will never be.

Shoveling Snow

I like the feel of it.
I like the tidiness of it.
I like the systematic nature of it. You wipe this quadrant clean and then begin the next rectilinear section.
I like the power of it - whipping all that snow off to the side, watching it cascade off of my shovel, the little snowflakes joining all the other snowy crystals who've already fallen prey to my efforts. (Fear not: my fantasies of world domination end here.)
I like the satisfaction of peering out the window - frequently - and seeing that our driveway is (still) free and clear.

Eat your hearts out, you warm weather wimps; I'm not jealous at all. Not a lick.

Pretty and Popular Problem

I'll begin by saying; I've never had it. Nor would I have considered being pretty and popular a problem. But today with my fifth graders my eyes were opened. At recess, I was taking pictures of the kids so we can work with the photos in our computer class.

Enter: Katrina Van Tassel and Ichabod Crane.

Ichabod: Can you take a picture of me with Katrina?
Triteacher: Sure, set it up and I'll snap it.

Minutes pass. Ichabod returns sans Katrina.

Ichabod: Can you take a picture of me with Katrina?
Triteacher: Sure, get Katrina and I'll take it.

This goes on... and then as recess is drawing to a close, I hear Ichabod asking Katrina to take a picture with him. "Will ya? Will ya?"

"Um, not right now, Ichabod. I'm having my picture taken with someone else." She was indeed posing with a group of her girlfriends.

In the Legend of Sleepy Hollow, my sympathies have always lain with Ichabod. In real life, I felt for Katrina. Being sought after because of your looks would suck. Katrina could never be anonymous or blend in. An activity like this has all the hangers-on wanting to be reflected in her glow.

And she is automatically assumed to speak out of and as representative for the pretty people of the world. Ichabod today concluded that Katrina was "stuck up." Aren't most good-looking people assumed to be stuck up? Jocks? Preps? Is she, or did she just want the anonymity that looking nondescript can provide? I have always taken this comfort for granted. Hmm...

More school... 5th grade love. They blow me away. They want so much to please. Sixth graders wanted to please for about the first 2 weeks of school. These kids want to please me even now in December. They aren't just a year younger - they're a whole different species. And, they're starting to think and speak more maturely now too - moving into the analytical, reflective thinking I enjoy. We laugh about the characters in the books we read and how they are reflective of our character traits. We had a thoughtul discussion of vanity this week and kids shared insights into their own vanity. Seeing them step outside of themselves to observe their own behaviors... wow.

Move over swimming; I might just be falling in love with my 5th graders.